


just for one night

by iimpavid



Series: unfinished duet [12]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Boot Worship, Domme Juno Steel is the Forbidden Truth, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Gags, Humiliation, Impact Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23793892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid
Summary: Catching Peter’s undivided attention is difficult but the power that comes with it is worth the effort. Juno swallows and gives himself a second to breathe before he says, “Come here, prettyboy.”
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel/Original Character(s)
Series: unfinished duet [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564903
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	just for one night

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [penance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21448297) by [iimpavid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid), [voidteatime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidteatime/pseuds/voidteatime). 



> READ THE TAGS FIRST NERDS.
> 
> This fic is part of a larger series of kinky shenanigans tagged onto the “Unfinished Duet” OT3 timeline.

Juno’s fed up. Disgusted. 

“I really should just give up on you, shouldn’t I?” 

Worse than disgusted: he’s _disappointed_.

Kneeling on the floor Peter frowns up at him. Kneeling on a  _ cushion _ on the floor— a  _ velvet _ _cushion_ because Hieron not only worries about his knees but insists upon spoiling him while they’re at it-- Peter looks as confused as a personal assistant asked to divide by zero. He’s still fuzzy around the edges from pain and pleasure. They’re well into the evening and his breathing is heavy, coming down off a beating, his hair lank with sweat and deep rope-marks are criss-crossed into his arms and shoulders. Which is to say nothing about the bright red welts across his thighs that made kneeling a delicious torment.

“It’s one thing if you wanna fuck up your own stuff, that’s your problem, but—“ 

Here, Peter has the audacity to interrupt him: he works his mouth around his new ball gag to push out a questioning noise. With it, a thin stream of saliva sluices down his chin and drips onto the cushion he’s kneeling on. The velvet absorbs it, almost immediately, turning such a dark shade of green it’s nearly black.

Juno exhales steadily to center himself. He points at the cushion, at the wet spot between Peter’s knees.

“See, that’s  _ exactly _ what I’m talking about. That’s not yours and you’re drooling all over it— what are you, a dog?” 

It’s a lovely gag. Custom-fitted with a matte black with a leather harness just snug enough to give Peter the feeling of being trussed up even free from Juno’s rope. The perfect gift.

Unable to speak, Peter had slipped right down low into that fabled attentiveness that came to the surface so easily for Hieron within minutes. He was elated to give it to Juno, too. His whole body, a livewire thrumming with greedy gratitude. He was eager to hold onto the bright golden bell Juno handed him. To nod agreeably and nuzzle and be held and posed while Juno dragged roughspun rope over his skin, winding tighter and tighter. The stinging was a portent of things to come. He’d panted through his nose and pressed into Juno’s hands, desperate and wanting to be touched, only to find himself hung from a beam in the breakfast nook looking out the bay window, waiting for rattan instead.

“Just look at the mess you made, Peter.” 

Peter looks where Juno gestures-- at the spot on the floor a few feet from where he’s been let down onto his knees for a break. 

The grain of the floorboards is a blur but he doesn’t need to see clearly to know what Juno’s referring to. He’s still weak-jointed and delirious. He’d never been beaten to orgasm before but, as he keeps learning, there’s a first time for everything.

He swallows what saliva he can, heedless of the filthy sucking sound his mouth makes around the gag. With effort he articulates the vowels and melody of:  _ I’m sorry, Juno. _

Despite himself, Juno’s a little impressed. 

“Are you really though?” That gets a distressed, insistent noise out of Peter but Juno shushes him. “No,  _ no _ , that’s not your fault. You just can’t see without your glasses to really appreciate what you did. I forgot;  _ I’m _ sorry. That’s on me. C’m’ere a sec.”

Juno threads his fingers into Peter’s hair. It’s getting past the point where it needs to be cut which makes it the perfect length to get a grip in and drag Peter along by it.

Peter, of course, tries to follow. Rises up off his burning thighs and does his best to crawl with one hand still holding the bell but Juno’s a little too quick. Peter’s knees skid painfully across the hardwood floor before Juno shoves his face down into it.

“There, that should be better.” He doesn’t sound at all like a tyrant. He sounds helpful. He sounds like he cares. “You see that?” 

Juno bids him to look so Peter looks. Opens the eye that  _ isn’t _ precariously close to his own cooling semen even though looking twists his stomach with a strange sort of dread. Things had been going so well between his new gag and Juno breaking in a new cane over Peter’s thighs. He thinks, frantic, that  _ he’d _ been good _ , _ he knows because _ Juno said as much _ , but then Juno had deigned to kiss him. Warm and chaste against his jaw and his throat and just the right side of too much.

Or the wrong side, as it turned out.

Juno adjusts his grip in Peter’s hair, pulling at the finer strands near his temple, to rub his cheek through the puddle.

With the gag obstructing his breathing Peter is acutely aware of how his sinuses swell with the urge to cry. 

He braces his forearms against the floor for balance to at least make it easier for Juno to use him as a mop-- if he can’t manage self-control he will manage to be useful— and the ball bearing inside the bell in his hand  _ rattles _ and  _ clicks _ . 

Juno lets go of him.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, nose pressed to the floor, smelling himself as his cheek slides under Juno’s direction and hating it. He never wants it to stop. 

Then Juno tugs his head up and the buckle of the gag rattles and clicks, too, as Juno takes it off him.

Peter starts to protest because he didn’t ring the bell, not on purpose, he tried to keep it as still as he could. “Juno, I—“ 

“I didn’t tell you to talk.” 

His mouth snaps shut so fast he almost bites his tongue.

Juno pulls him up and back onto his heels. Peels Peter’s fingers open around the bell to let it jingle to the floor and roll away. There’s a livid  _ X _ scored across Peter’s palm in the pattern of the bell’s vents.

“I just need your mouth free for a minute, prettyboy,” Juno tells him, digging his thumbs into the tender places in Peter’s palm. He lifts a hand to swipe his thumb along Peter’s cheekbone, where the skin is a irritated red and smeared with come, then pushes his thumb between Peter’s lips. 

He pulls a face for a fraction of a second (there’s a reason he prefers to swallow) but he sucks Juno’s thumb clean — and then some. He  _ fights _ Juno a little when he pulls to take his hand back, just the slightest hint of teeth in his misguided desire to do more and better. There are a solid three seconds where Juno considers slapping him for it.

Instead he takes Peter’s chin in his hand, hard enough to hurt, “I need your mouth free because you’re gonna clean this up, got it?” 

Juno won’t let him nod and his voice is rough when he replies: “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good.” 

The second Juno steps back, Peter turns his attention back to the floor and presses his palms into the boards beneath his shoulders to lower himself to do as he’s told. 

He licks along the wood grain and chases the mess Juno had only spread around with the side of his face... but that was Juno’s prerogative.  _ Juno _ gets to make things worse if he wants to. The only thing Peter needs to worry about in the world is being grateful for it. 

He’s flushed, he knows. He can feel his heartbeat in his face and it can’t be any prettier than the noises he makes. The house is silent so every sound he makes in that silence is so loud it hurts: the wet drag of his tongue along the floorboards. The delicate slurping that comes when he finally works out the right way to suck his semen free from a flat surface. The careful way he gags swallowing against the triple-threat of cold, viscous and bitter. His fingers curl against the floorboards and he swallows a couple times more to clear the extra saliva from his mouth. The last thing he wants is to vomit. (An irrational part of him fears Juno would only get that exasperated, tired look and make him clean  _ that _ up, too -- and that might just kill him.)

“You missed some,” Juno says from above and nudges him-- the lightest touch of his boot to Peter’s cheek-- in the direction of a few spattered drops he may have been headed toward anyway. 

It's a testament to how far gone Peter is that he doesn’t flinch or even blink with a boot so close to his teeth. He pauses long enough to turn his mouth toward Juno’s boot and press a wet kiss to the leather, soft-mouthed and slow. Then without missing a beat he veers toward the last of the mess, lapping and sucking at the floor until it gleams with a fine sheen of spit.

Juno has to make himself walk to the window seat and sit down. 

Peter stops to watch him. His need to be able to see Juno outweighs his need to earn Juno’s forgiveness for just that moment. His lips are swollen. His mouth hangs open a fraction. A hair-thin strand of saliva connects his lower lip to the floor, glittering, before he breathes and it breaks to cling along his chin.

Catching Peter’s undivided attention is difficult but the power that comes with it is worth the effort. Juno swallows and gives himself a second to breathe. Then, beckoning, “Come here, prettyboy.” 

Peter crawls to him and pushes himself to kneeling with a truly unfair amount of grace.

“You missed a spot.” He wraps his hand around the back of Peter’s neck before Peter can turn to look over his shoulder-- Juno makes him look down instead. 

Juno’s boots are black hand-stitched leather with steel toes that put their weight above two kilograms and thick tread that easily adds an inch to their height. A concession to luxury as much as utility-- they’re weapons unto themselves. And on the toe of his left boot, almost comically centered, is a drying transluscent droplet.

A distant and practical yearning rises in Peter for brush and polish and rag and wax--  _ there’s a right way to fix this  _ \-- but it’s drowned in the simple fact of Juno’s hand squeezing his neck and the knowledge that the  _ right way, _ as defined by Juno, now starts with his mouth. 

Except for the notes of abject humiliation the leather tastes clean. Sharp and loamy at once, the smell fills his nose with the richness of weathering oil and the ghost of polish. He’s always made a point to take good care of them for Juno. Without a thought for how he looks, he shuffles backwards a bit when he’s finished with the upper. Flattens his chest against the cool floor to get a better angle for tracing his tongue along the seam where leather meets dense rubber sole.

It doesn’t register right away what’s happened when Juno props his other foot on Peter’s back. He’s leaning back, comms in hand. Peter moves to lick across the toe of Juno’s boot again so that he can get a good look up at him. He may not be able to make out Juno’s features from the floor but he knows Juno can see the questioning look on his face just fine. In fact, Juno takes a picture of it.

Juno shifts and the tread of his boot digs in and twists the skin of Peter’s shoulder-- the way he might settle against a footrest. He takes another picture of Peter peering up at him. The aperture sound, tinny from the comms speaker, is loud enough to make him flinch.

“You gotta problem down there?” 

It’s a trap, a small but obvious one, and Peter turns his attention back to the leather under his lips, avoiding it.

“I thought not,” Juno says, pleased.

Peter breathes through a wave of lightheaded giddiness. He has to push up into the sharp tread to lave his tongue over the back half of Juno’s boot .

Juno doesn’t tell him to stop. He only pushes back at Peter, for nothing more than the pleasure of grinding bruises into him, making him work a little harder for his debasement. The ache in his shoulder sinks through the muscle and radiates down his arm -- he’s seized by the image of peeling back his own skin and finding Juno’s footprints on his bones. 

Peter has to steal a moment for himself, sucking at the leather protecting Juno’s ankle and resisting the reflex to bite down and shudder at the thought.

“Having fun yet?” 

He kneels up with a sly look and turns into the boot pressing into his shoulder. He kisses it, open-mouthed and sloppy with a sidelong glance into the camera-- Juno’s still taking pictures-- telegraphing clearly:  _ What do  _ **you** _ think? _

* * *

Not too much later, after a warm bath and more pictures for posterity, they sprawl on Hieron’s ridiculously large bed. Outside the bedroom door the hounds are milling, wanting to be let in to cuddle, no doubt. Peter and Juno pass a carton of chocolate gelato between them, attention switching between spoons and Juno’s phone in turns: they’ve bade a night of harassing Hieron on their household groupchat. It’s fun to play together but it’s best when Hieron’s there, too, and since their mutual lover had the audacity to be at a work function, the two of them were obligated to let Hieron have no peace.

Juno’s the first to get down to brass tacks, folding an arm behind his head so he can get a better angle to look at Peter. “So where’d your thing for bootlicking come from? Is it a natural extension of your shoe fetish, or what?” 

“I don’t have a shoe fetish, I just have damn good taste in footwear.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that.” 

Peter huffs and shifts so he can drop his head onto Juno’s stomach. He refuses to move at Juno’s put-upon sigh, only holds his hand out for the gelato container and doesn’t start talking again until Juno hands it to him. “If I have a fetish for anything it’s masochism,  _ which you already know _ .” 

“Yeah, I’ll say. You and that cane got along great.” 

"No, that was entirely _your_ fault for kissing me." Peter blushes despite himself. “I wasn’t  _ trying _ .” 

“Oh, no, I’m actually impressed,” he clarifies. “Does that happen a lot?” 

Peter snorts. Proof of his newfound comfort, his willingness to make ugly sounds. “No. I haven’t come untouched since I was a teenager...I suppose I was just…  _ overwhelmed _ . I think not having an orgasm for the last two weeks certainly helped. You sadist.” 

“You love it.” 

He hums around the spoon, a little self-satisfied, “Yes, ma’am, I do.” 

“Besides, denial was Hieron’s idea; they’ve got the patience to enforce it.” 

“And you don’t? You’ve kept me fooled for so long, Juno, well done.” 

“So, bootlicking. You went from ambivalent to into it as hell, what’s that about? It seemed like more than your usual thing for humiliation.” 

“I’m  _ thinking _ about it. Impatient, sadistic minx.” 

Quick as a flash Juno takes back the gelato. “Whining doesn’t work on me.” 

“As you often tell me.” 

They pass the gelato back and forth for a few more minutes.

“I don’t like bootlicking in and of itself,” Peter announces, finally, like he’s made up his mind about something important, “but... I like licking  _ your _ boots. Because I know that you… won’t hurt me.” It sounds inadequate to his ears. He pauses, then, "When I was, oh, I don’t know, twenty-two? I was still running rage and soma for the Melvas when I wasn’t moonlighting as Ysadora’s bodyguard, I was a nobody, and not in the way I enjoy.”

Juno rolls with the subject change. Peter does this, he’s learned, when he’s trying to be really honest his stream of consciousness gets disjointed. “No rumors of your mysterious criminal genius circulating in the halls of the great and powerful?” 

“Not even a whisper. I’ll spare you the details, they’re political and boring and you wouldn’t be interested in them. What matters is that none of my teeth are real. Well, the ones in the front aren’t, anyway, the ones everyone sees.” 

Juno blinks at the second non sequitur and resists the urge to look down at Nureyev. Peter does vulnerable “I ... didn’t know that.” 

“Of course not, I never told you, why should you know?” He hums, “I wound up with a Melva signet in a Ummal neighborhood, wrong place at the wrong time, and… after a somewhat lengthy beating no less than Valric Ummal himself kicked my teeth in.” Peter closed his mouth and licked over his teeth. His veneers. The perfectly tinted implants anchored into his jawbone that’d put him in deeper debt and been worth every red cent. “I don’t like having anyone’s boots anywhere near my mouth except yours because you won’t hurt me unless I ask you to. And I … happen to really enjoy how that feels.” 

“Wow, Peter, I don’t know what to say.” 

“It’s not  _ that _ important.” 

“Yes, it is.”

Peter sits up, to argue more or to run away, and Juno follows him, pulling him into his arms. It does nothing to bend the defensive line of Peter’s shoulders but he doesn’t let go. “Maybe not to you-- that’s just something you survived and got over--” 

“After Dora got her father to pay to fix my teeth I beat Valric Ummal into a coma with a lead pipe.” 

He pauses, letting the statement settle between them. “I honestly didn’t think you were the type.” 

“Neither did I but then he took my teeth and I found something in me I didn’t know I had.” Technically, going strictly by appearances, it was Callyx Giles, an alias with a penchant for violence-- but _Peter_ had enjoyed every single second of his revenge on the unfortunate Mr. Ummal.

“We all get dangerous when we’re pushed far enough.” Then, figuring Peter could use the levity, he asks, “… I don’t need to be worried, do I? I was pretty hard on you tonight.” 

Peter leaned back into Juno’s embrace with a quiet sigh. “No, Juno. I never want to hurt you. The ways in which you hurt me are far too exquisite to give up. And, as I recall, yesterday morning I  _ asked _ if I could lick your boots.” 

“Flatterer.” 

“You’re an artist with a cane.” 

“I’m gonna remind you about that tomorrow when you’re whining about the bruises on your thighs.” 

“Taking vanity shots of them, you mean. They’ll purple magnificently.” 

Juno kisses Peter’ temple. “Thank you for trusting me.” 

_ “Thank you for being so trustworthy.”  _

Their comms chimed and they each reached for them in unison-- then laughed at themself, each other, and the texts awaiting them both from Hieron. 

“Did you realize you were sending those pictures to them during a business dinner?” 

“Yup.” 

“Oh, Juno, you’re positively devious.” 

“You would know.”

“Do you think it’s too cruel to tell them we’re finishing off the gelato, too?” 

Juno hums, “They got free steak, they deserve it,” and takes a picture of the empty gelato container. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is NOT a how-to guide for kink, okay, don’t be stupid.
> 
> 2) If I missed any relevant tags, please let me know.
> 
> 3) Hieron belongs to voidteatime; they just let me borrow H for my filth sometimes because they’re an absolute angel.
> 
> 4) If you made it to the end of my filth and enjoyed it then please comment. The entire reason I post fic online is to get to share it with a community.


End file.
